


The Book of Love

by RabbitRunnah



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Meeting, Alternate Universe, Author Eric Bittle, Author Jack Zimmermann, Book Tour AU, Lots of books and pies, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-05 08:15:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14040018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RabbitRunnah/pseuds/RabbitRunnah
Summary: Writing wasn’t a career Jack saw for himself, ever. Not when he was hockey’s boy wonder. Not when he was a 19-year-old NHL rookie, just trying to play through his anxiety until he couldn’t anymore. Not when he came back and led his team to a Stanley Cup win, and had two more good years before a torn ACL ended his career. Not even when he went to college and took a creative writing class because he needed one more elective to graduate.It wasn’t until, on the advice of his therapist, he picked up a notebook and pen and started recording his feelings about his childhood and too-short NHL career that he realized he enjoyed writing, was maybe even good at it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> What if, instead of playing hockey together, Jack and Bitty met as authors on a book tour? That's where this idea started, and it turned into this. This work will be posted in two parts.

Jack Zimmermann has been called a lot of things in his life.

 _Boy Wonder_ , they called him, both admiringly and disparagingly, when he was coming up in juniors, cocky and full of potential, poised to go first in the draft. Then, after a near-fatal overdose his rookie year, _Fallen Son_ , flung about by gossip and sports reporters to inflict maximum damage on Jack and his celebrity parents, a golden family due for a downfall. Then came _Addict_. _Comeback Kid. Stanley Cup Winner. MVP. Role Model. Washed Up. Has-been._

 _New York Times Bestselling Author_ is a name Jack is still getting used to.

It was there on the cover when his publisher sent him the Advance Reader Copies of his newest book, and it’s how his publicist advertised this event: “A Day at the Rink with New York Times Bestselling Author Jack Zimmermann.”

Which is funny, because Jack’s may be the name that got people in here, but it’s his fellow author, Eric “Bitty” Bittle, who’s running the show.

“Hey y’all! I’m so happy you came to see us today!” 

This is the third skating rink they’ve been to together, and thus the third time Jack has heard this exact greeting delivered to a room full of 7-to-12-year-olds in Bittle’s cheerful Southern accent.

“Mr. Zimmermann and I would love to take pictures with each and every one of you, and we’ve even got a special surprise at the end before y’all leave,” he’s saying now. “But first, we’re going to tell some stories. I have my new book here, it just came out, and I’d love to read a bit of it to you today.”

An excited chatter breaks out among the kids sitting on the floor, and he holds up a hand like a patient elementary school teacher. “Now, I know you’re excited, but we can’t read if y’all are talking. So let’s all put our listening ears on and get ready to hear a bit about Andy’s big skating competition.”

A hush falls over the room as the kids turn their attention toward Bittle, who takes a book off the table and opens it up to the section he’s going to read.

Jack has heard this before, too, the first chapter of _Axels and Apple Pie_ ,  Bittle’s middle grade novel about a boy named Andy whose hobbies are figure skating and baking. Apparently, it’s based on Bittle’s own childhood as a figure skater.

On that front, it has a lot in common with Jack’s own middle grade series of novels about a youth hockey club. It’s a little bit based on Jack’s own experience coming up through the ranks, and a little bit a depiction of what he _wishes_ it had been like when he was a kid. The fictional Falcons are more diverse than the teams Jack played on as a kid, and part of the reason he writes is to convince his young readers that _anyone can play_.

Writing wasn’t a career he saw for himself, ever. Not when he was hockey’s boy wonder. Not when he was a 19-year-old NHL rookie, just trying to play through his anxiety until he couldn’t anymore. Not when he came back and led his team to a Stanley Cup win, and had two more good years before a torn ACL ended his career. Not even when he went to college and took a creative writing class because he needed one more elective to graduate.

It wasn’t until, on the advice of his therapist, he picked up a notebook and pen and started recording his feelings about his childhood and too-short NHL career that he realized he enjoyed writing, was maybe even good at it.

(Not as good as he was at hockey, he thought, but he would never really be good at hockey again, so why not try this?)

His parents had just co-authored a memoir, so finding a publisher wasn’t as difficult for Jack as it might have been. Their agent, after reading Jack’s manuscript and declaring it marketable, had sent it to a friend, an established editor, who was starting her own independent publishing house. It was a long shot. Some suggested he hold out for a major house that could offer more money and a bigger publicity budget. But Jack didn’t need the money and he’d always had a soft spot for the underdog. For all of his career mishaps and missteps, he was still a big name, one that might give the tiny startup some visibility.

The first book, _The Fearless Falcons_ , sold surprisingly well for a debut author with a small press. Helped along with a push from Jack and some of his famous friends, it had caught on in the close-knit hockey community and word had spread from there. Jack still wasn’t sure how the follow-up had landed on the New York Times Bestseller list for children’s middle grade books, but it had been enough to secure a contract for three more books in the series.

It had also made his publisher, Ampersand, more willing to sign another new author, preferably one who might benefit from Jack’s existing readership. Eric Bittle, like Jack, left the ice years ago. But his sweet manuscript about a young figure skater had landed on Jack’s editor’s desk and she’d pounced, already imaging a series of  book signings at regional ice rinks.

“The potential is awesome, Jack,” Heather had said. “You’ll be going straight to your market, and local rinks will benefit from all the new kids coming in to see you who might go back for a free skate or a lesson. Plus, what better way to launch our new author than to send him on tour with you?”

Their publicist, Julie, had quickly worked out the details for a series of meet-and-greets at skating rinks throughout the East Coast, most within a few hours’ driving distance or short train ride from their homes. Depending on the success of this tour, a national book tour could be in their future.

But right now, they’re here at a rink in Mount Laurel, New Jersey, and Jack is listening to Eric Bittle read about Andy’s two goals for his sixth grade year: land a double axel and bake a prize-winning apple pie for the county fair.

In many ways, the writer’s lifestyle suits Jack. He doesn’t mind the solitude, and he’s always been goal-driven. Working through a particular scene, finishing a chapter, a productive morning of editing — it’s satisfying in the same way scoring a winning goal was satisfying. The part he doesn’t enjoy — had never enjoyed, even when he’d been a professional athlete — is the public appearances.

At least he isn’t a regular topic of conversation on _Sports Center_ , or giving post-game interviews several times a week during the season. But he _is_ expected to do press and make appearances to promote the books. And this is something he still struggles with.

Which is why he’s both grateful for and infuriated by Eric Bittle.

Grateful because, honestly, it takes some of the pressure off of him. Infuriated, because Bittle and their publicity team have turned what used to be short book signings into a half-day _events_ that seem designed to highlight how uncharismatic and awkward he is. Bittle has been doing the heavy lifting at these things, and it’s so much _more_ than what Jack did when he was doing meet-and-greets on his own.

Bittle travels with an entire extra suitcase full of everything he needs to prepare his table: a bright red and blue table cloth, a stack of cards with the recipes included in his books, a three-tiered cake stand for the mini pies he hands out to his young fans.

Oh yes, there are also the mini pies.

Bittle’s one request, when he agreed to the tour, was that they stay in extended stay hotels as often as possible because he needs a kitchen to prepare the mini pies. As far as Jack knows, he preps them the night before their events.

“Would you like one?” he’d asked at their first stop. He’d held out a small mini pie that might have been cherry or strawberry and, to be fair, it looked delicious. But Jack had just shaken his head and mumbled something about his diet and a brief cloud had passed over Bittle’s face — so quickly Jack almost missed it — before he’d plastered on a smile and said, brightly, “Well then, that’ll be one more for our guests.” Jack feels kind of bad about that, but Bittle hasn’t offered again and he’s too embarrassed by his earlier behavior to ask to try one now.

Even though everybody who tries them seems to think they’re the best thing they’ve ever eaten. 

Bittle reads to the kids, who are rapt with attention, as Jack goes through his mental checklist for today’s event. They have this part down to a science. Bittle will spend about 10 minutes reading an excerpt from his book, then he’ll trade places with Jack, who will read from his. They’ll each take a few questions, then the kids will get in line to have their books signed and pictures taken with them. That’s followed by a short break, so everyone can change into skates.

Bittle had really upped his game when he’d suggested to their publicist that they invite any kids who are interested to join them for a free skate after the signing.

Jack doesn’t get out on the ice very often these days, not unless his father ropes him into a skate when he’s home visiting. But today, as he has the previous two weekends, he dutifully puts on his skates and takes the ice with a couple dozen kids. Bittle instinctively knows what to do with them. Many of these kids take figure skating lessons or play hockey, but some aren’t as steady on their feet. It’s not uncommon to see him join hands with one or two kids and gently lead them around the rink for a lap, or give some of the more advanced skaters pointers on their jumps.

Jack, by contrast, skates in slow circles and counts the minutes until he can leave the ice.

“You don’t have to be such a grump,” Bittle says as he glides by on one leg. “Lighten up. Act like you want to be here.” He executes a spin and begins to skate backwards, still talking. “Would it help if we gave you a stick and a puck? You could run some drills? Maybe set up a goal and have a shootout with the kids? I can talk to Julie about that.”

“Don’t … talk to Julie about that. I — ” Jack’s cut off when a small body stumbles by and crashes into him.

“Hey, steady there,” he says, bending down to help the little girl, probably about 8 or 9, up. Her hair is in blonde pigtails, and she’s wearing a blue- and yellow-striped Falconers beanie. “Falcs fan, eh? Didn’t think you were allowed to root for them here.”

The girl smiles up at Jack as she gets to her feet. “I was born in Providence.”

“Oh, it’s the home team, then. In that case, I’ll let it go. I used to play for the Falconers, you know.”

“I know!” the girl giggles. “I got to go to one of your games. I was pretty little, though.” Before Jack realizes what’s happened, she’s tucked her mittened hand into his and is cautiously moving forward, walking more than skating. Jack slows down to match her lurching stride.

“You know, I think I remember you,” Jack says. “You were that little girl with blonde hair.”

Bittle, still skating backwards and facing Jack, catches his eye and smiles.

 

 

Free skate ends at 1:30 p.m. The kids have gone home and they’re heading toward their own cars when Bittle says, “I knew there was a heart in there somewhere, Mr. Zimmermann. You were real sweet to those kids out on the ice.”

Jack smiles, remembering how Olivia had told him all about her favorite Falconers players and her favorite characters in Jack’s series and how she’s going to start figure skating lessons soon because of Eric’s book. Jack had patiently skated with her for the rest of their ice time. They’d eventually been joined by a 7-year-old boy named Isaiah who was also a bit timid on the ice. By the end, he’d had both of them skating on their own, always sticking close enough to catch them if they fell.

“I know I’m Heather’s most difficult author, but I’m not a complete monster,” Jack says. 

“You sure had those little ones charmed.” Bittle shifts the box of supplies he’s carrying to his right arm to his left and balances it on his hip as he reaches for the pocket his keys are in.

“Let me,” Jack says, taking the box from him. “Is that yours over there?” he asks, indicating a white rental Kia with Massachusetts plates.

“That’s me,” he confirms. “Thanks. I’ll just pop the trunk and there should be a space right there next to my overnight bag. Yeah, that’s it.” He presses a button on the key fob and the trunk lid lowers.

“You shouldn’t have to rent a car for these,” Jack says. “You live in Boston, right? That’s not that far from Providence. We should carpool next week.”

Bittle looks at him through slightly narrowed eyes. “I believe I suggested that at the beginning of the tour, Mister Zimmermann. If I recall, Julie said, ‘Jack’s a great guy, but I wouldn’t wish a four-hour car ride with him on anybody. He’ll make you listen to World War II history podcasts.’”

“Not true. Sometimes I listen to old radio shows.”

Bittle’s little laugh of surprise pierces the silence in the empty parking lot. “We’ve been doing this for three weeks. Why didn’t you let on that you have a personality under that gruff exterior?”

 _I’m shy. I’m awkward. I’ve been doing this all my life but I still don’t understand how to be good at it._ All would be partial truths, but Jack just shrugs.

“I have to run to the store and buy some more baking supplies for tomorrow,” Bittle says. “Do you have plans for the rest of the day?”

Most of the towns they’ve been staying in are a little too far from major cities to enjoy a proper night out on the town, if Jack were even interested in that. If there’s an interesting regional museum nearby Jack might check it out, but he typically heads in early.

“I usually just hang out in my room,” he says, realizing only when he’s said it how pathetic he sounds.

 “Do you really just stay in your room all night?” Bittle looks a little bit confused and a little bit amused.

Jack shrugs, because when he puts it that way, it does seem silly. “It’s a good time to work on my new book. Sometimes, if I don’t feel like writing, I catch up on my reading, or watch something on TV.”

Bittle just shakes his head. “Well if you’re just gonna sit around, you don’t have to do it alone. Come on over to my room tonight. You can put the TV on and keep me company while I make my mini pies.”

Jack’s first instinct is to decline, but Bittle looks sincere and, well, it’s not like he has big plans to do anything other than order room service and read the new LBJ biography he’s been meaning to get to. “I’d like that,” he says sincerely. If nothing else, they can eat room service together, which sounds more appealing with every minute he’s in Bittle’s presence.

“Me too,” Bittle agrees. “You can come by at six.” 

 

 

Jack may be an introvert at heart, but his parents did teach him manners, so when he knocks on Bittle’s door just before six it’s with a bottle of wine in hand.

(He’s not a big drinker, and he’d had to text his parents to ask for a recommendation. His father had replied with a string of emojis that Jack had vaguely interpreted as “Are you on a date?” before his mother had responded with a more appropriate list of labels and vintages to look for.)

Bittle’s changed from his dark jeans and sweater into exercise shorts and a worn Samwell University T-shirt, and his smile is bright when he answers the door and ushers Jack inside. “Right on time, Jack! Gracious, you didn’t have to bring wine. Though it’s definitely appreciated. Do you want to sit down?”

His suite is the mirror image of Jack’s. The room they’re standing in includes a small kitchenette, dining table with four chairs, and “living room” with a pullout couch and coffee table. 

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” Jack says.

It takes Bittle a second to realize Jack is joking, and then he laughs brightly. “I try.”

And the thing is, Jack can tell he does. The oven is already on. A baking sheet filled with tiny foil pie tins sits on the counter on one side of the oven, and a bowl of cherries sits on the other. There’s music — it sounds like Patsy Cline — coming from the clock radio Bittle’s phone is docked in. The room isn’t much, it looks like every other crappy hotel room they’ve stayed in on this tour, but it’s cozier and warmer and just feels _homier_ than Jack’s room next door.

Jack sets the wine down on the counter and watches as Bittle goes back to stirring his bowl of cherries. “I’m making the filling,” he says by way of explanation. “Once the dough for the crust is chilled, we’ll put it in the tins and add a scoop of this to each one.”

“Do you always use cherries?” Jack asks, peering into the bowl.

“I _try_ to use whatever’s in season. But I use cherries when I can, since that’s the recipe included in my most recent book. It’s fun for the kids, you know, to get to try the same pie Andy makes. And then they get to take the recipe home, so they can learn something new. Hopefully with their parents helping out. It’s really special for them when the whole family gets involved.”

“You do a really good job with that,” Jack says.

“With what?”

“All this extra—” Jack waves a hand at the counter — “all of it. The pies and the social media and everything. Heather and Julie are always trying to get me to do more and it just doesn’t come easily to me. I prefer to just write my books and keep to myself. I guess I’m kind of a hermit.”

“You don’t say.” He smiles a little and then says, more to cherries than Jack, “I can help you, you know. If you want.”

Jack is slightly taken aback. He’s been nothing but gruff and standoffish toward Bittle, and yet he first opens his home (well, room) to him and now seems to want to help him.

“Am I that pathetic?”

“You’re a little clueless, maybe, but I wouldn’t say pathetic. You’re right, it doesn’t come easily to everyone. But I do this as part of my day job, so it’s pretty natural for me to handle my own social media. Lets me control the narrative and all that.”

“What’s your day job?” Jack asks as Bittle takes a tray of round discs — pie crust? — out of the freezer. 

“I work at a couple skating rinks in the Boston area. I started out just teaching group lessons, but when I pointed out they weren’t reaching as many people as they could because they were still using the same website they’d had for 10 years and didn’t even have a presence on social, they put me in charge of that, too. Since I’ve been doing it, we’ve added two group figure skating classes a week, gotten enough kids interested in hockey to have another youth team, and doubled our weekend free skate attendance.”

Jack has no idea if that’s good, but it _sounds_ impressive. “That’s great.”

“Mm-hmm,” Bittle hums. He’s methodically removing each disc from the tray and warming it between his hands a bit before fitting it into one of the mini pie tins. “It pays the bills. Lord knows I’d love to write full-time, but you know what it’s like. I’ve gotta sell more books first.”

“Yeah,” Jack agrees, although he really doesn’t know exactly what it’s like. He’s pretty sure he gets the same advance as Bittle, maybe a little more now that he’s got an official best seller, but it’s not what he lives off of. Even with only five years in the NHL, he made what most people would consider an obscene amount of money for essentially playing a game. He owns his home and car outright, can afford a nice meal out or vacation whenever he wants, but otherwise lives fairly modestly. 

“Do you wanna help me out here?” Bittle hands a spoon to Jack and demonstrates how to fill the mini pies with the cherries. “I’ll get the top crust on.” They work in tandem, Jack filling and Bittle covering the pies with another disc of dough. He crimps each edge and finishes each one off with a dusting of something he calls “sanding sugar.” 

“These’ll go back in the fridge for an hour,” Bittle says as he places them inside, “and then we can bake them.” He collapses onto the couch and flings a hand over his forehead. “I think I’m ready for that wine now.”

The kitchenette is stocked with wine glasses and a corkscrew, so Jack sets to work opening the bottle and pouring two glasses. He sits down on the opposite end of the couch and hands one off to Bittle. “We could eat dinner while we wait for the pies to finish,” he suggests, because that’s what you do when you’re hanging out with someone, right? It really has been a long time since Jack’s done this. “I usually just have a protein shake and trail mix from the vending machine, so I don’t have anything in my room, but I saw a magnet with a number for pizza delivery on the fridge.”

“Pizza?” Bittle quirks an eyebrow. “How does that fit into your famous diet plan, Mr. Zimmermann?”

“You know about that?” Of course he knows about it.  He doesn’t think his diet plan was even that outrageous, but he had, unfortunately, given an interview early in his career where he’d mentioned protein no fewer than 13 times. It had made it onto a BuzzFeed roundup of the “25 Most Insane Athlete Diets” and Jack is probably never going to live it down.

“I might not look like a hockey fan, but I’ll have you know I’ve been following the sport since college. Everyone knows about your diet plan.” He frowns a little. "You said you didn’t want my pie because of your diet,” he pointedly reminds him.

“Uh, yeah. That may have been an exaggeration. I haven’t followed a diet plan since I retired, really. I just — ”

“Didn’t want to try my pie?”

“Didn’t want to encourage you, because you’re way better at all of this than I am. I apologize. Clearly, I’m a jerk. And I was really wrong about the pie, it smells amazing.”

Bittle gives him a smug little smile. “Figured you’d come around. And pizza sounds great, actually. I don’t think I’ve eaten anything since breakfast. Play your cards right, there may even be a mini pie with your name on it for dessert.”

They order a pizza — half veggie, half pepperoni — and are just starting in on their second glasses of wine when it arrives. “I’ve got this,” Jack says, stopping Bittle from taking out his wallet.”

“But you brought wine.”

“How about you get it next time?” Jack suggests, realizing he’s just implied there will be a next time.

“Yeah,” Bittle says, almost shyly. “Okay.”

After dinner, when the last batch of pies is cooling on the counter, Bittle turns toward Jack with a sly grin. “Are you ready for your first social media lesson? I was gonna take a picture of these pies for my Instagram, but I’ll give this one to you.”

This … might work. Jack enjoys photography, even took a few classes in college, and has always found sharing pictures on Instagram to be more comfortable than sharing brief thoughts on Twitter. He used it — when he remembered — when he was playing hockey, but since retirement his personal account has been neglected, save for the occasional photo of a city skyline or his parents’ rose garden. His literary agent had helped him set up an official “author” account when he got his book deal, but so far the only post is a two-year-old picture of his first book the day he received it in the mail.

Bittle adjusts the pies on the counter and tries to help Jack frame the photo until he realizes Jack knows what to do, and he looks on with a little bit of pride as Jack takes several shots from different angles. When they’ve chosen the best, he helps Jack choose a filter and write a caption:

**@JLZWrites: Getting ready for the #BittleZimmermannBookTour with @EricBittleBooks. See you tomorrow, Princeton.**

 

***

 

As the weeks go by, the book signings begin to feel a little easier and Jack is surprised to find he’s starting to look forward to them. At the beginning of the tour, his anxiety would begin to spike as the weekend crept closer. Now, he’s almost sad when he and Bittle — Eric, as he’s started calling him — pack up after their last event each Sunday and go their separate ways. Eric has been coaching Jack a bit on how to read without sounding like a robot, and Jack’s finally given into his suggestion that he go over some hockey drills with the kids on the ice. They’ve ended the last two sessions with a demonstration followed by a shootout between Jack and one randomly chosen child. It is, he realizes, a lot more fun when he allows himself to have fun.

Hanging out with Eric is also fun. Without talking about it, they’ve settled into a Friday evening routine where they arrive at the hotel separately and Jack eventually finds his way over to Eric’s room, always bringing something to share. Sometimes it’s a bottle of wine, other times it’s a bag of popcorn or trail mix procured from the vending machine.

“Ugh, this is the worst,” Eric says, making a face after swallowing a handful of trail mix. “What even is this?” 

“It’s nuts, and seeds, and dried fruit. I think there are even some chocolate chips in this one. It looked good.”

“It is _vending machine trail mix_ , Jack. They’ve all been bad, but this one is definitely the worst.” He flips the bag over in his hands and begins reading the ingredients: “Peanuts. Cashew _pieces_. Sunflower seeds. Dried coconut. Dried dates. _Carob chips_ , not chocolate, dear god, _why_ … Here, try it.” He shakes the bag in Jack’s face.

Jack takes the bag and tries some. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. This is — ” 

It’s actually really dry, and tastes like it might have been sitting in the vending machine for the better part of a decade, but he can’t admit that now so he chokes it down and pretends it’s great. “ _Yum_.” 

“Oh my god,” Eric laughs. “I’m not three. You don’t have to pretend for me.”

“So good,” Jack says, dumping another handful into his mouth and nearly gagging. “ _Delicious_.”

On the other side of the couch, Eric is practically in tears. “I’m ordering pizza,” he says when he finally composes himself. 

The picture that makes its way onto Eric’s instagram is of Jack, biting into a slice of pizza. 

**@EricBittleBooks: Would you believe @JLZWrites thought vending machine trail mix was an acceptable dinner? Thank goodness for delivery. #BittleZimmermannBookTour**

 

***

 

“You know, we could save Ampersand some money if we just tell them we’ll share a room,” Jack says one evening over wine and pizza. The aroma of freshly baked pie — berry this time — fills the room, and it’s altogether _nicer_ than the cold, impersonal room Jack will go back to before the night is over.

“Share?” Eric raises an eyebrow.

“I’m over here all the time anyway, right? And the couch pulls out into a bed. I can sleep here.” Jack can tell Eric’s about to protest. “Or we can take turns, it doesn’t matter. The point is, I’m only using my room to sleep and shower and it just seems like a waste of money.”

“I thought you liked your space.”

“I like hanging out with you more,” Jack says. It’s true. Helping Eric bake, sharing a pizza, discussing their current projects and reminiscing about their days as child athletes — it’s all become routine, and Jack likes routine. More than that, he realizes he likes being with Eric more than he likes being with most people. Eric is good at reading Jack’s mood, can tell when a day of reading out loud and interacting with people is just too much for Jack, and on those evenings is content to carry the conversation or just quietly work in the kitchen while Jack reads on the couch. 

“I like hanging out with you too,” Eric replies.

“So I’ll talk to Julie about it this week and see if she can just change the bookings going forward. If it doesn’t work out, we’ll know better next time.”

“I should warn you, I sing in the shower.”

Jack chuckles. “I usually get up early to run or go to the gym. But I’ll try not to wake you.”

“I think this calls for a toast,” Eric says, topping off their wine glasses. “To being roommates.”

The clink of their glasses rings throughout the room. 

 

***

 

It’s early August when a wrench is thrown into their routine.

Jack gets a text from Eric on Thursday.

**_Eric: Have you read Heather’s email?_ **

**Jack: Not yet. I’ve been working all day.**

**_Eric: The extended stay we were supposed to stay in this weekend flooded. They’re putting us up in a regular hotel instead._ **

Jack isn’t sure what the problem is with this, unless …

**Jack: Oh. Was she unable to get a suite? I can see about getting my own room.**

**_Eric: It’s not that. I just won’t have a place to make my pies. I called all the bakeries in the area and they need at least 48 hours notice to make that many._ **

**Jack: Can you bring something store-bought instead? Just this once?**

_**Eric: I guess I’ll have to. : (** _

An hour later, Jack has an idea.

“I need to buy an oven,” he tells his father over Skype. “Can you help me pick one out?”

“Finally taking those cooking classes we got you for your birthday?” Bob asks with a chuckle.

“Ah, no. I actually need a portable oven. I’m on this book tour and the other author on the tour has been using the oven in our room, but there was an issue with the hotel this weekend and they have to put us up in a regular room.”

“And this author doesn’t have a backup plan?” 

“He does,” Jack says, treading carefully now because he knows how good Bob is at reading between the lines. And judging by his smirk, he’s definitely reading between the lines. “I just want to surprise him.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“He’s helped me out a lot on the tour, figuring out the social media stuff.”

“Go on.”

“I know this will make him happy.”

“I see,” Bob says, still smirking. “It sounds like you need a portable toaster oven that can do double duty as a convection oven.”

Jack isn’t sure what any of that means, but this is exactly the sort of thing that makes his father feel useful in his retirement so he lets him “do a little more research.” When he calls back, it’s to tell him he’s placed an order at Williams-Sonoma and it will be ready for pickup in an hour.

“Thanks, Papa,” Jack says, clicking on the link he’s just texted. A window in his browser opens to reveal a cheerful red countertop oven. “It’s perfect.”

 

***

 

They’re in Maine this weekend, and since Eric has a makeup skating lesson until 5 on Friday evening, Jack arrives at their hotel first. It had taken him the better part of the morning to shop for everything he needed, but he’s happy with the result.

“Looks like you have quite the load,” the porter says, helping him unload his car. “We can have this delivered to your room while you’re checking in.”

“Thanks.”

“Someone celebrating a birthday?” he asks, indicating the large, gift-wrapped box he’s just put on the luggage cart.

“No, ah, just a gift for a friend.” 

Everything is ready when Eric arrives just before 10. Jack has turned the desk into a makeshift counter and the bag of baking supplies he purchased sits next to it. He’d had to make some modifications to Eric’s recipe, which he’s memorized by now. They’re limited by space and lack of a stovetop, so he settled for canned cherry pie filling and frozen dough, the latter of which is chilling in a cooler on the floor. 

He’d decided against ordering a pizza, unsure whether Eric would stop for a bite to eat on his way. Instead, he picked up some easy snacks while he was at the store. 

He hears the click of the lock when Eric scans his key card, and for some reason he feels like a kid on Christmas day. Except, it’s not Christmas, and Eric is the one receiving the gift, and Jack is Jewish anyway so maybe this is not the perfect analogy.

“Honey, I’m home!” Eric calls, giggling a little. “I hope you ordered a pizza, Mr. Zimmermann, because I am _starvin_ ’,” He stops in the doorway when he spots the desk piled high with bags and Jack’s box.

“Looks like someone’s been shopping,” he says, tone light. 

“It’s for you,” Jack says.

“My birthday was three months ago.”

“It’s not … No. It’s just for you. Because.” Jack runs a hand through his hair. He doesn’t understand why his heart is beating so quickly. “Oh, come on. Just open it.” 

Eric finally sets his bags down and closes the door behind him before he cautiously approaches the package. “Really?” 

“Really.” Jack stifles a laugh as he gingery peels back a corner of the wrapping paper. “Come on, it’s a good surprise.”

Eric proceeds with a little more enthusiasm and Jack can tell by his little gasp when he realizes what it is. His cheeks are a little flushed, his eyes suspiciously wet, when he meets Jack’s eye. “You bought me an oven, Jack Zimmermann!”

Jack nods.

“You bought me a $270 portable oven in Cranberry Red.”

“When I was younger, my cousin Madeline had a toy oven that made real food. I started thinking about that when you said you wouldn’t have an oven this weekend, and it turns out they still make them but apparently you can’t actually use them to make the stuff you make.”

“That’s an Easy-Bake Oven, Jack. I had one, too. It uses a lightbulb for its heat source.”

“This one is really good. My dad is really into cooking and he, ah, told me I should get this one.”

“Bad Bob Zimmermann helped you buy me an oven. I think I need to sit down a minute.” Instead of taking a seat on the couch, Eric drops directly onto the floor, clutching a scrap of wrapping paper to his heart.

Jack kneels down and approaches him the way one might approach a wounded animal. “It’s okay, right? You seemed so disappointed that you wouldn’t be able to bake this weekend and I figured this might help. We probably won’t have time to make a whole batch of pies tonight, but I bought a few things so we can experiment. Don’t kick me out; I had to get refrigerated pie crust because I don’t think there’s enough room in here to make the real stuff.”

“No, it’s perfect,” Eric sniffles. “I’m just bein’ silly. I’m sorry you have to see me like this.”

“It’s fine,” Jack reassures him. “You shouldn’t be embarrassed because you’re happy. You’ve seen me at my most antisocial. If anybody should be embarrassed, it’s me.”

“I can’t believe I didn’t think of this earlier,” Eric says. “Thank you.” He slowly gets to his feet. “I did mean it when I said I was starving. Traffic was awful on the way over and I didn’t want to stop.”

“I wasn’t sure if you would,” Jack admits. “There’s some crackers in one of the grocery bags, and cheese in the cooler.”  

“What, no trail mix?”

“We have an oven now, we can make our own.”

“Don’t tempt me, Jack Zimmermann.”

“Wait, you’d really—”

“I _do_ know how to make more than pies. Let’s see, you’d probably like something with lots of nuts for protein, I might use a little maple syrup to sweeten it because you’re Canadian … Don’t look at me like that, Jack, you aren’t that tough a nut to crack. I’ve got you figured out.”

Jack laughs. “Oh, you do? Just what have you figured out?”

“ _Everything_.”

Eric’s _everything_ carries a lot of weight. It hangs between them, full of possibility. 

 

 

Saturday begins as one of the best days Jack has had in a long time. This morning he finally convinced Eric to get up and run with him, and it has resulted in two new realizations, the first of which is that Eric Bittle is a speedy little thing. This shouldn’t be too much of a surprise because he’s small and fit, but he’s always put Jack off when he’s asked him to join him for his Saturday morning run so he assumed he wasn’t a runner.

(“I never said I don’t run, Mr. Zimmermann,” Eric pointed out, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “I just said I don’t run at six in the morning.)

Strictly speaking, Jack isn’t supposed to run. Despite a couple of surgeries, he still has pain from the injury that took him off the ice, and it’s been suggested by more than one doctor and physical therapist that he stick to lower impact activities like walking or using the elliptical machine. He compromises — or pushes his luck — with two or three short runs a week. He isn’t as fast as pre-injury, peak NHL-condition Jack, but he can get through three miles at a respectable pace.

Even so, he finds it difficult to keep up with Eric, who runs with the easy stride of somebody who makes it a regular habit. He falls a little behind after a mile, and despite his competitive streak, he can’t even say he minds, because it leads to his second realization of the morning: Eric Bittle has a really nice body.

(This isn’t a completely new realization, Jack supposes. He’s just never seen Eric in short running shorts and a body-hugging Under Armour T-shirt. And he definitely hasn’t seen Eric from _behind_ in short running shorts and a body-hugging Under Armour T-shirt. It’s … enlightening.)

“Good run,” Jack says afterward, a little out of breath. “You’re fast.”

“Faster after I’ve had my morning coffee,” Eric says with mock annoyance. “But I’m glad I got up to run with you. I can’t believe I’ve been missing out on seeing you in those horrendous shoes all this time.”

Jack looks down at his neon yellow running shoes. “They’re cool.”

Eric gives him a consoling pat on the shoulder. “You keep telling yourself that, Mr. Zimmermann.” He whips out his phone and takes a shot of their feet from above.

The caption, when Jack checks Instagram later, reads: **@JLZWrites thinks his shoes are ‘cool.’ Like if you agree. #BittleZimmermannBookTour**

 

 

Jack’s good mood continues through the afternoon’s book signing. With only three more weekends of these, they’ve really hit their stride. The kids are especially engaged today; it turns out most of them are from a local co-ed hockey club, so it seems natural to turn free skate into a scrimmage. 

Eric, who has an eye for these things, chooses the two smallest kids to captain the teams and Jack finds himself drafted by the Unicorn Cobras. Even the youngest kids play at a high skill level. Jack can’t help assessing them and mentally planning plays, but lets the kids take the lead. Still, when Eric speeds past, he can’t resist trying to steal the puck.

 _Trying_ , because Eric is as quick on the ice as he was on their run this morning. He’s already passed the puck to one of his teammates by the time Jack catches up to him.

“You’ve played before!” Jack accuses him as he flies by.

“Intramural, in college!” he replies. “Captain!”

Jack chuckles to himself, and isn’t even that upset when the Unicorn Cobras lose, four goals to the Wolf Snakes’ five. As the kids swarm Eric to receive high fives and a store-bought sugar cookie, Jack is struck by how he just seems to _glow_. Everybody loves Eric Bittle. Jack might be a little bit in love with him, too.

 

 

Baking three dozen mini-pies in a hotel room not equipped for such activities — even with the addition of a fancy portable oven — is no small feat.

Two hours in, Jack can feel the frustration radiating off of Eric, who normally completes the task with ease. He’s up to his elbows in pie dough, has a smudge of cherry compote on his cheek, and just slid the second tray of mini-pies into the oven with a little more force than necessary.

“It’s not your oven,” Eric reassures him when he catches Jack looking at it with suspicion. “It’s me.”

He’s set up a makeshift workstation on the desk and is trying to prepare the pies, assembly line-style, but there’s just not enough room to work comfortably. The floor below the workspace, which they had the foresight to cover with towels, looks like a crime scene thanks to a canned cherry spill. Jack makes a mental note to pay the hotel back for the towels because he’s pretty sure those stains aren’t coming out. 

“My mama would be horrified,” Eric says, looking mournfully at the floor. “She didn’t raise me to trash hotel rooms like this.”

“My dad,” Jack can’t resist saying, “would be delighted.”

“Well,” Eric huffs, “a grown man who goes by ‘Bad Bob’ _would_.”

Inspired to document this moment, Jack snaps a quick picture with his phone. While Eric whistles to himself and concentrates on assembling the last batch of pies, Jack begins an Instagram post.

**@JLZWrites: Book tour behind the scenes: Those mini-pies @EricBittleBooks has at every stop are baked nightly. (Shh. Don’t tell hotel management.) #BittleZimmermannBookTour**

“We should order room service, he says when Eric finally has the last tray in the oven.”  He’d had a chance to look through the menu earlier and it seems decent.

“I could go for that,” Eric says. “What looks good?”

“Chicken tenders,” Jack says without hesitation.

“Chicken tenders? Really?” 

Jack refuses to be embarrassed about this. “Old habits? My parents tried to give me as normal a childhood as possible, always tried to make sure they both weren’t traveling at the same time so one of them could always be home with me, especially as I got older and more involved with hockey. But sometimes they had no choice but to bring me along to their events, and I hated it.” 

He really had. He remembers parties at large homes of athletes and actors, people most saw only on their TV screens but who his parents called friends. He remembers being told to play with kids he didn’t know, and never knowing quite what to say to them. These California kids played basketball and tennis, they surfed and sailed, and Jack found they didn’t really understand when he tried to talk to them about hockey. Sometimes he’d just slip into an empty room and find a book and read. One time he’d wandered away from a game of hide-and-seek and ended up in a room that had an indoor pool, a sight so surreal that even now, he wonders if it was a dream. 

He remembers being an awkward kid, big and shy and so unlike his glamorous parents that one particularly nasty reporter, when Jack was in the middle of the worst part of puberty, had speculated on his popular blog that he wasn’t their biological child.

“They’d bribe me by promising I could order chicken tenders from room service afterward if I’d just go to this party with their friends, or appear with them for one of Mama’s movie openings, or ride on a Stanley Cup parade float.” Jack shrugs. “You know, I don’t have a lot of fond memories about those parties and events. I was such a shy and awkward kid, and I never seemed to fit with the other kids at those things. But afterward, snuggled up in bed between my parents, watching old movies and eating chicken tenders — that’s one of my favorite childhood memories. I always get chicken tenders when I order room service.”

Eric smiles. “That sounds really nice, Jack. When I was in middle school, and traveling for skating, I always used to have room service bring me grilled cheese after a competition. I always wanted the steak, but my mama said she already spent enough on lessons and competitions, she wasn’t going to pay room service prices for a steak dinner. So grilled cheese it was. Matter of fact, I think I’ll get that now.”

“You should get the steak,” Jack says.

“I don’t think so, Mr. Zimmermann.”

“Why not? You deserve to celebrate. You’re a published author and you just charmed a room full of kids and their parents.”

“Maybe next time,” Eric demurs. “I’m not sure how I’d feel eating a big steak dinner while you eat your _chicken tenders_. I wouldn’t want to make you jealous.” He looks ready to say something more, but is cut off by the oven timer going off.

“You should get that,” Jack says. “I’ll call and order dinner. You sticking with the grilled cheese?”

“Yes, sir!” Eric calls from the kitchen, already pulling on his oven mitts. “Looking forward to it.”

Jack dials the extension for room service and places an order for chicken tenders, a grilled cheese sandwich, and two orders of fries.

“Be honest with me,” Eric says when he’s set the mini pies on the cooling rack and settled himself on the opposite end of the couch from Jack. “Did you order those chicken tenders off the kids menu?”

Jack just shakes his head. “So chirpy. Are you making more pies tonight?”

“Lord, no. This should be enough for everyone who wants one. I _love_ the oven, but this room just isn’t set up for a large scale pie-making operation. If more kids start showing up to these I may actually have to start ordering from a local bakery.”

“Why don’t you?” Jack asks. “Seems like it would be easier for everyone. Ampersand would probably even pay for it out of our tour budget.”

“Oh, they do pay me back for the ingredients and supplies,” Eric reassures him. “I just like it. Baking has always been …” Jack has never see him at a loss for words, so he waits for him to collect his thoughts. “You told me a story about your childhood, so I’ll tell you about mine. I used to get teased a lot, when I was younger. My daddy was — is — a football coach, and everyone in our small town was always looking at me, wondering why Coach’s son wasn’t a big, tough football player like his daddy. It didn’t help that I skated. And I loved skating, more than anything, but it was always work, you know?”

Jack nods. He does know. He doesn’t say anything though, just waits for Eric to continue.

“Baking was something I could do to relax and lose myself, even more than when I was on the ice. I could take an hour to make a pie and forget about my bullies and how I wasn’t the man I thought Coach wanted me to be. And I was good at it. When I got injured and they told me I wouldn’t be able to compete anymore, that the most I might hope for is a career in an ice show or as a coach, baking was what got me through.” He chuckles. “I even had a baking vlog, for a while, in high school and college. Used to feed the hockey house in exchange for an oven to use. That’s how I became a fan of the game.”

Jack laughs. “You bribed your way into a kitchen. Why am I not surprised?”

“I like to think it was mutually beneficial. They got pies, I got an oven and a hockey education.”

“Probably more fun than my hockey education,” Jack muses. 

“You have regrets?”

“Not … regrets. Not really. Sometimes my parents joke that the reason it took me so long to figure out I’m bisexual is because I was too in love with hockey to think about being in a romantic relationship with _anybody_. It was my life. But after a point, when the important people started taking notice, it got to be hard and I didn’t always deal with it well. The pressure of living up to your father’s expectations, I get that. For two years, before the draft, it felt like every conversation I had with mine was about hockey and my career and what I needed to be doing. I was terrified that I’d screw up and he’d be disappointed in me. And then I did. And my parents still loved me. And they helped me.”

“Your parents sound like good people. Like they really _see_ you.”

“Not always,” Jack says. “Or, I didn’t always _feel_ they did, but what teenager does? They tried their best. I don’t blame them for anything I did when I was young and stupid. There’s no handbook for how to be celebrity parents. Maybe they should have had me in therapy sooner, maybe I should have asked for help sooner, but we’re good now, really close. I don’t know if we would be if things hadn’t happened the way they did.”

Eric is quiet for so long that Jack wonders if he’s dozed off. Finally, he says, “Things are better with my parents, too. I won’t pretend we didn’t have some tough times when I came out to them, but they see me now, who I am. It’s really nice, to be on the other side of that.”

“Yeah.” Jack looks up and catches Eric looking at him, brown eyes full of empathy and understanding. Maybe they’ve taken different paths to get where they are but they’re both here now. Jack feels seen. He feels known. He feels warm and _wanted_ and he’s all but certain Eric feels it, too.

When their food arrives, Eric delights in the tiny bottles of ketchup and mustard and snaps a few pictures of them together next to his plate before Jack swipes them and climbs up onto his bed with his chicken tenders and fries, sitting up against the headboard and tucking his feet under the folded blanket at the foot of the bed. “You have to eat it in bed,” he explains when Eric gives him a _look._ “That’s the rule.”

“Lord, you’re full of surprises this weekend,” Eric says, but he gamely takes his plate to his own bed.

“The good kind, I hope.” Jack dips a chicken tender in ketchup.

“The best.”

Jack tags his parents in the photo that makes it onto Instagram: **@JLZWrites: Thinking of my parents, @BadBobZimmermann and @AliciaZimmermann tonight. Chicken tenders in a hotel room after a long day are still delicious.** **#BittleZimmermannBookTour**


	2. Chapter 2

The tour comes to an end at the end of summer and it feels like … the end of summer. Jack can recall the last day of summer before the first day of school, that bittersweet feeling of wanting everything to stay the same while simultaneously looking forward to whatever’s coming next. He used to feel this way at the end of the hockey season, too. At the beginning of summer, the beginning of this tour, Jack had been looking forward to this day. Now, he realizes the end of the tour means the end of his weekends with Eric. And it doesn’t feel as liberating as he expected it to feel.

He allows the kids to ask more questions and take more pictures after the free skate, because he’s looking for any excuse to prolong this day, this feeling. 

“Is Mac based on you?” one boy asks him. It’s a question he gets at every signing, but he usually just says, “Yes, a little bit,” and moves on to the next question. Today, he offers a more honest answer.

“Mac _is_ based on me, but he’s a lot braver than I was when I was a kid. I used to get anxious and scared before a game, and I thought that if I told people they’d think less of me. But now I know that everyone gets scared sometimes, and it’s okay to talk about how I feel. I talk to my parents and some of my good friends, and I go to a therapist I can talk to when I don’t feel like talking to my parents or friends, and sometimes I take medicine my doctor prescribed. Those are all things that help me feel better.”

“Everybody gets scared sometimes,” Eric adds. “It’s okay to be scared. You aren’t alone. I’ve become really good friends with Mr. Zimmermann this summer, and I feel like I can tell him anything. I hope each of you will find a friend you can talk to the way Jack and I talk to each other.”

Jack feels warm inside for no good reason.

The kids give them a sweet standing ovation when Julie finally steps in and tells them they’ve been a great group, but this is the last stop of the tour and Mr. Zimmermann and Mr. Bittle have to go home so they can write more books. And that’s it, they’re done.

“I guess I’ll see you around, Bittle,” Jack says as they awkwardly stand next to their cars in the parking lot.

“Oh, come here, you big lug.” Eric pulls him into a warm hug, and Jack lets himself relax into it. “It’s not like this is goodbye forever. Come see me in Boston sometime. It’s not _that_ far from Providence.”

“Less than an hour on a good day.”

“And there’s always Heather’s holiday party, it’ll be here before you know it. I heard the gift exchange got pretty heated last year.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Somebody obviously told Eric about the Jack Zimmermann Falconers bobblehead that made the rounds.

“This was a lot of fun. I’m glad we did it together.”

“We should do it again next summer,” Jack says, sincere.

“And you’re the one who had to be dragged kicking and screaming into this,” Eric laughs. “One last selfie for the road?” 

Jack nods because, why not? They squeeze together in front of the rink’s sign and Eric takes the picture. It is, objectively, terrible. The sun is too bright, the angles all wrong. But their smiles are real, and Jack asks Eric to send him a copy because it’s one he wants to save. He feels a little ember of anticipation begin to burn inside of him when he checks Instagram later:

**@EricBittleBooks: Closing the book on the #BittleZimmermannBookTour. See you next summer?**

***

It’s easy for Jack to fall into a routine. It’s why he liked the intense schedule of the NHL, and why his days now all follow the same basic pattern, even though he isn’t required to stick to a traditional work schedule. So it’s easy for him to slot a new daily activity — “text Eric” — into his pre-existing schedule. 

At first, it’s weird to communicate this way after the intimacy of their late night hotel room conversations, but it quickly becomes second nature to dash off a quick text — _good morning_ — as soon as he’s done with his morning workout and shower. Sometimes Eric replies in kind, and other times — if he doesn’t have lessons first thing — he gives more details about how he plans to spend his day. He’s started teaching private lessons to a few students, and on those days he shares stories about them — their progress, and the funny things they do or say.

They get in the habit of texting each other word counts for their latest projects at the end of each day, and Jack notices Eric will sometimes go days without making any progress before surprising him with a few thousand words in one marathon writing session. On the no-progress days, it’s not unusual to find his Instagram feed updated with photos of baking attempts, not all of them successful. (“Somebody please tell me Martha Stewart has days like this, too” is the caption for a lemon meringue pie that didn’t set quite right.) Twice, he receives UPS deliveries of sugar cookies. 

Jack takes a picture of the cookies — artistically frosted figure skates and hockey pucks — and can’t resist chirping Eric a little via Instagram: **@JLZWrites: I can tell when @EricBittleBooks has been procrastinating because I always get something sweet in the mail.**

When Eric finishes his manuscript in December, he posts a tired-yet-exuberant selfie: **@EricBittleBooks: Book #2 is complete and off to my editor!**

“Be honest,” Jack says when he calls to congratulate him. “Did you pull an all-nighter to finish that one?”  
****

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Eric says. “How do you think I got through college?”

“Stress baking and caffeine?”

“Keep it up, and see if you continue to reap the benefits of that stress baking,” Eric warns, tone light.

Jack sends Eric ten pounds of his parents’ favorite fair trade coffee beans and five pounds of premium bittersweet baking chocolate with a note: “ _To help you with the next book._ ”

A picture of that ends up on Instagram too: **@EricBittleBooks: Thanks to @JLZWrites, I may never sleep again.**

For his part, Jack spends the fall and winter making edits on the next Fearless Falcons book and working on a new manuscript he’s only just begun to discuss with Heather. It will be marketed to the young adult audience because the subject matter — the main character’s anxiety, alcohol abuse, and growing awareness of his own bisexuality — is too mature for his middle grade audience. 

“Do you want to read it, when I finish?” he asks Eric during one of their now-daily phone calls. They’ve talked, a little, about how personal it is, how it’s been more difficult to write than his other books because it forces Jack to relive some of his most unpleasant memories. Eric has a way of talking him down and calming him when his anxiety begins to spin out of control; even over the phone his voice can ground Jack and help him find his center.

“Jack, of course I do.”

“You’d be the first. You and my parents. Before Heather, even. She’s seen parts of it, but not the whole thing.”

“As soon as it’s finished, I’ll drop everything and read it,” Eric promises.

 

 

He finishes the first draft of the book at the end of February, and sends it to his parents and Eric. He isn’t expecting them to reply right away, and certainly isn’t expecting Eric to call him at 11 p.m. that same evening, when he’s just about to turn in for the night. He sets the book he’s been reading before bed to the side and picks up the phone on his nightstand.

“Jack, it’s amazing.” Eric sounds like he’s been crying.

“You finished?”

“I sat down as soon as I got home from work and I haven’t moved. Didn’t even get up from the couch; I think I may fall asleep right here, but I had to call you first. I love it.”

Hearing Eric’s praise quells the low buzz of anxiety Jack’s felt since he finished the book. Next to his parents’ opinions, Eric’s is the only one he really cares about. He sinks back into his pillow and relaxes a little.

“It’s not too … _revealing_?”

“Oh, honey, it is, and that’s why it’s so wonderful. I know it’s fiction, but I can see how much of yourself you put into it. This book is going to make a difference to a lot of kids, Jack. Thank you for sharing it with me.”

“Thank you for being its first reader. I’m glad you like it.”

“ _Jack_ , I _love_ it. My lord, I was rooting so hard for Connor to get it together and talk to his parents and his coach and _just kiss the boy already_.” 

“So _that’s_ the part that made an impression on you.”

“Well, I can’t deny that what the world needs is more books about boys kissing. But that’s such a small part. Connor was able to kiss Alex because he was honest with himself about who he _is_. He was able to get help for his anxiety and talk to his dad because he was honest about who he is. That’s what your readers are going to take away from this book. That it’s okay to be who they are, and show that person to the world.”

“I was just trying to write about that time in my life and … process it? See if I could give my problems to a character and let him get a happy ending a little sooner than I did, without the overdose and hiding in the closet forever?”

“And maybe it’ll help some other kid look forward to their own happy ending.”

“Yeah.” On the other end of the line, Jack thinks he hears Eric yawn. “Long day, Bittle?”

“I gave a lesson at five this morning, and two after work. These kids sure keep me on my toes.”

“Tell me about them. Did you have a lesson with the sisters you were telling me about last time?”

“The Elliot sisters. Yeah, I had ‘em both tonight. Anika went first and then Trudy, and the whole time I was working with Trudy, little Anika was out there copying everything we did. Mark my words, that little girl is going to be a force to be reckoned with. Trudy is good, but Anika just soaks everything up like a sponge. And did I tell you she wants to wear her Black Panther Halloween costume for the ice show? Finally, a little girl who doesn’t want to be Elsa …”

Jack closes his eyes as Eric continues to tell him about his day and the kids he worked with, and how the rink had to place another order for their books because they sold out (again) of the stock they keep in the front office. When he yawns again, Jack asks him if he should hang up and let him sleep.

“Probably, yeah. I have another early lesson tomorrow. I just couldn’t wait to call you.”

Jack imagines Eric, wrapped up in a blanket on his couch, fighting sleep. “I should go to bed, and you _definitely_ need to go to bed. Talk tomorrow?”

“Mmm,” is Eric’s sleepy response.

“Do me a favor though, and get off the couch and go to bed. You’ll feel better in the morning if you sleep in your bed.”

“Who do you think you are, my mama?”

“More like somebody who fell asleep on the couch last week and is still feeling it.”

“That’s because you’re an old man,” Eric says, with so much affection that Jack wonders, not for the first time, if his crush isn’t one-sided.

“I’m only five years older than you. That’s just enough to learn spending the night on a couch once you’re out of college is never a good idea.”

“ _Old man_ ,” Eric repeats. “Okay, I’m gettin’ up. ‘Night, Jack. Sleep well.”

“You too, bud.”

“Jack?” Eric says just as he’s about to end the call.

“Yeah?”

“It’s a good book. You should be proud.”

***

In early March, Jack receives an email from Julie. He and Eric have been invited to be panelists at a roundtable discussion on sports in children’s and young adult books at a book festival in California. It’s a weekend event, with the discussion and two book signings, and the festival has offered to pay their expenses. “They actually wanted just one of you, but you have such great chemistry I talked them into taking both of you, if you’re available,” Julie tells them during a conference call. “It’s a great opportunity, especially with Jack’s new book slated for a fall release.”

“I’ve never been to San Francisco,” Eric says.

“Really, Bittle? Not even for competitions?”

“I was a _regional_ champion, Mr. Zimmermann. Furthest west I’ve been is Vegas, for a bachelor party. Can’t say I remember very much about that particular trip.”

Jack forgets, sometimes, that not everybody grew up the way he did. “I think you deserve a proper trip to the West Coast.” 

“I’ve always wanted to see the Golden Gate Bridge,” Eric muses. “Oh, and Alcatraz. And Lombard Street! Do you think there’ll be time to do all that?”

Julie laughs. “From what I understand, you’ll have a book signing and a panel on Saturday afternoon, and another signing on Sunday morning. There should be more than enough time to do some sightseeing.”

“We could spend the whole week there, if you can take the time off work,” Jack quickly suggests. “You up for being roommates again?”

Eric makes a strange little noise. 

“Is that a yes?”

“It’s not a no, sweetheart.”

This time it’s Jack who makes the strange noise.

“Uh, why don’t the two of you work out whether you want to extend your stay, and let me know so I can book your flights,” Julie suggests. 

Jack feels caught, a little embarrassed that his crush on Eric is so obvious. 

“Thanks, Julie. We’ll talk it over and get back to you,” Eric calmly replies while Jack’s still struggling to find words.

 

 

Jack spends the next months making edits and revisions on the new book, working with Heather and her art director to choose a cover, and preparing for the short talk he’ll give at the festival. Julie and Heather start talking about another summer rink tour, this time a full three weeks with stops in cities that have NHL franchises. 

In early April, a few weeks before the festival, Julie informs him that he and Eric will be joined on their panel by Helen Harris, whose book about a girls’ water polo team is currently climbing the young adult lists, and Chad Jones, an ex-NFL star who recently co-authored a picture book about football. She sends a link to the conference’s website and he’s struck to see the photo they’ve used to advertise their panel is one that was taken after one of last summer’s events. Jack remembers posing for it, remembers how Julie told them to stand closer together. They’d shuffled toward each other and Jack had put his arm around Eric’s shoulder, and they’d smiled until Julie finally had the picture she wanted.

When Jack was playing hockey, he posed for countless publicity photos, always feeling like he was playing a role, even though it was his _job_ to wear a uniform and play hockey. He was always a little surprised to see himself, months later, on posters and billboards advertising the Falconers and the NHL. _That’s a hockey player,_ he’d think, forgetting all about how awkward and artificial it had seemed at the time.

That’s a little how he feels when he sees this picture of him and Eric, both of them looking a little more at each other than directly at the camera. _That’s a couple in love_ , he thinks, and he wonders if everyone else can see it, too.

***

There’s not a lot of time for a reunion before the panel. Jack’s flight out of Boston is delayed — he should have taken the earliest flight with Eric — and he just barely makes it to the host hotel in time to meet with the festival organizers and receive final instructions about the event. Eric is already there, looking a little nervous as the moderator talks them through the questions she’ll ask.

“I can’t believe these people think I have something worthwhile to say about all this,” Eric confesses to Jack as they’re about to be introduced. 

Jack gives his shoulder a little squeeze. “You’ll do great.”

The moderator is a local librarian, and she begins with easy questions: What inspired you? What about your books appeals to kids? How does the push for diversity in books for children and young adults reflect the push for more diversity and inclusion in youth sports? What message do you hope kids take away from your books?

Jack is the first panelist to answer her last question. “I think anybody who followed my career at all when I was playing hockey knows that my books are informed by my past as a young athlete. I played at a highest levels, but even at the lower levels, at very young ages, kids feel the pressure to win, to be better. Some kids handle that pressure really well, but I didn’t. And there was this culture surrounding me where I felt that I had to play through it because everyone else seemed to be doing fine, and I thought that if I slowed down or took it easy, I’d get left behind.” He pauses and takes a breath, feels his racing heart slow down a little when he glances at Eric and receives a tiny nod of acknowledgement.

“And then I made it to the NHL, my dream. I was already a basket case because of my anxiety, and the pressure to continue my father’s legacy, but it didn’t help that by the time I was 20, I’d had a few short-lived relationships with women _and_  men. That wasn’t something I could talk about with anybody, not when there weren’t any out players in the league. It was just one more thing I felt I had to hide. 

“In my earlier books I wrote about a hockey team made up of all kinds of kids: kids from different economic and ethnic backgrounds, kids with disabilities, kids who have different religions, and kids who have two moms or two dads, because I want my readers to know that anybody can — and should — play. But the new book is more autobiographical; I didn’t hesitate to write about some of the pressures I felt as a teenager and the unhealthy habits I developed to cope. I guess I want my readers to know that there’s nothing shameful in being who you are or admitting you need help, and that sometimes — like we see in Eric’s books, actually — those can be the things that make you strong and set you apart.”

The audience claps politely and Jack passes the microphone to Chad, whose booming voice reaches all corners of the room. “Uh, I think it’s safe to say Mr. Zimmermann and I had very different experiences coming up in sports. For one thing, I didn’t have a famous daddy to pave the way for me.” He chuckles a little at his own joke, like he expects the audience to laugh along with him. When it doesn’t, he continues.

“But I guess the biggest difference is that I thrived in that environment. When I was a kid I’d go to the high school football games, and I’d watch games on TV with my daddy on the weekends, and I wanted to grow up to be just like my heroes on the field. I wanted to be strong and tough, because I knew that’s what it took. I didn’t pick a cause or have a breakdown that got me in the news, I just played. Because my coaches taught me that’s what a man does.”

Maybe Chad doesn’t realize his message has gone over like a lead balloon with this crowd. Maybe he does. Jack sees Helen hesitate, as though she’s about to reply, and he considers a response of his own before Eric beats him to the punch, eyes blazing.

“My daddy is a football coach,” he says as he gets to his feet. “A good one. And he’s a good man, he’s always tried to teach his boys to be good men. But we’re from the South, see, and a lot of his players grew up in that culture you grew up in, Mr. Jones. The one that tells them that boys who are big, and strong, and tough grow up to become men who are big, and strong, and tough. And maybe if they’d had more books like Mr. Zimmermann’s, that told them there’s more than one way to be a man, instead of having narratives like yours driven into them from the time they could hold a ball, maybe they wouldn’t’ve locked me in a closet and left me overnight because the coach’s figure skating, pie-baking son didn’t fit their image of what a _man_ should be.”

Eric’s words come out in a rush, and Jack doesn’t realize he’s been holding his breath until Eric pauses and the audience begins to clap. Only then does he finally remember to breathe. 

“ _I’m not done_.” Eric holds up a hand. “This man, sitting next to me, is one of the bravest people I know. I’ve had the chance to read his new book, and it’s amazing. I hope you _all_ have a chance to read it. But I didn’t play a contact sport like Mr. Zimmermann and Mr. Jones. I was a figure skater. It’s a stereotype, sure, that male figure skaters must be gay. Not all of us are, by the way, but people assumed some things about me. Even then, in that environment where people assumed I liked boys, it sure took me some time to come to terms with my own sexuality. Now imagine playing a sport like hockey, or football, or baseball, and feeling like you have to hide who you are because that’s what the culture says you have to do if you want to succeed. Things have gotten better since we were kids, there are some visible athletes out there who are out and outspoken. But it’s not enough. That’s why we need books like Mr. Zimmermann’s. 

“And it’s why we need books like Ms. Harris’. She based her character’s struggles with anxiety, and the racism she encounters in a predominantly white sport, on her own experience as a young athlete. This is _our_ reality, and it’s reality for most kids these days. Our readers relate to our characters and buy our books because they see themselves in them. I receive letters every day from kids thanking me for writing about the things I do, and I’m sure Mr. Zimmermann and Ms. Harris do as well. Now, if you want to talk about positive representation, or lack thereof, we can chat about how your book does a great job of perpetuating the ‘dumb jock’ stereotype.”

There’s a kind of silence for a few seconds, as if the audience is waiting to see if Eric has more to say. A lot happens in those few seconds. Eric’s face changes from righteously angry to uncertain, as though he’s just realized how much he’s said and wants to take it all back. But then everyone stands, and Jack watches his face transform again. He’s receiving a standing ovation and he’s absolutely _beaming_. The audience loves him. It’s impossible not to. Jack catches his eye and gives a little nod. 

The only things that stop Jack from kissing Eric as soon as the panel ends are the crowd that swarms him and the reporter who eventually pulls him away from his admirers for a short interview. So instead of doing what he wants to do, which is escape to someplace more private and tell him everything, Jack poses for a few photos and answers a few questions directed at him, then slips into the lobby and calls his father. 

“Papa, I need your help.”

“You know I’m always happy to help, Jack.”

“Dinner reservations for two?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Er, something special, good for a first date. Expensive. Something that will impress somebody who likes to cook.”

“Is this the same young man you bought the oven for?”

“Yes, Papa, but that was before I knew I love him.”

That’s it. That’s the bomb. Jack has always been good at ignoring his feelings, all the little signs, until everything comes out in a dramatic explosion. Once, it nearly cost him his life. This time the situation isn’t quite so dire, but he still feels everything he knows about his world rearranging. If he thinks about it, he’s probably been in love with Eric since the night they ordered room service and talked about their pasts, but he was definitely _noticing_ him before that night.

“Jack, you’re my son and I love you. So please know that I say this with nothing but love: You’re not subtle. At all.”

“You’re really not,” he hears his mother say.

“Do you have me on speaker?”

“Hi, baby.” 

“You know,” Bob continues, “some people like to start small. Maybe dinner and a movie. A picnic. Flowers. I took your mother to this little hole-in-the-wall Italian place on our first date.”

“We both got sick. The board of health shut it down a week later,” Alicia interrupts. Jack can imagine her look of fond exasperation.

“For some reason, she agreed to go out with me again, anyway. That’s what they call the Zimmermann charm.”

“Don’t take him seriously, honey. There are better ways to win someone over than by inadvertently giving them food poisoning.”

“Yeah, I think I’ll skip that step. Eric and I have already spent a lot of time together. I want this to be special.”

“Hmm …” Bob sounds thoughtful. “You’re in San Francisco? Let me make some calls, Jack. I’ll get back to you.”

A few minutes later, Jack gets a text: _I had to call in a favor with a friend of a friend, but you have reservations at The French Laundry at 7 p.m. I went ahead and reserved a room nearby for the night too, since it’s a bit of a drive from where you are now. I’d recommend taking a car over there soon._

Jack is just pocketing his phone and heading back toward the conference room when he sees Eric approaching. It stops him in his tracks because wow, he is so in love with this man. He stands there, rooted the the ground and dumb with love. 

“What’s wrong?” Eric still looks a little stunned by everything that’s happened in the past hour.

“Do you want to go to dinner?” Jack blurts out.

“I’m kind of curious about that Sushirrito place we saw earlier—”

“I actually have a reservation somewhere. We’d have to leave soon, though. And … you may want to grab something to wear tomorrow? It’s a bit of a drive so it’ll be easier if we stay the night. Do you have something nice you can change into now?”

Eric looks skeptical. “Jack Zimmermann, is this another one of your surprises?”

“It’s a good one.”

 

 

Jack is glad he brought one of this two nice suits. He doesn’t have much use for them these days, but he finds himself pulling one out once or twice a year. Tonight definitely calls for a suit. He and Eric get ready in separate rooms of their hotel suite, running into each other in the bathroom when Jack is brushing his teeth and Eric is styling his hair.

“C’m’ere,” Eric says as Jack is running a comb through his own hair. “Your tie.” Jack instinctively moves toward him so he can adjust it. “That’s better.”

Jack catches a glimpse of them in the full-length mirror as they’re leaving the room, he in his charcoal suit, Eric in navy blue pants and a gray blazer. They look _right_ together. Eric takes a selfie outside the hotel while they’re waiting for the car Jack ordered. “You sure you don’t wanna give me a hint?”

“You’ll love it,” is all Jack says.

 

 

It takes Eric an impressively long time to figure it out, which is understandable since he spends most of the ride gazing out the window at the scenery. “I knew California was beautiful, but I never imagined,” he breathes. “It’s so different from the East Coast. It’s so different from _Georgia_.”

“Different from Canada, too,” Jack says. “I spent some time in LA growing up, because of my mom, but didn’t see a lot of Northern California until she filmed a movie here the summer I was twelve. My dad and I did all the touristy things while she worked. It was before all the pressure of being Bob Zimmermann’s son really got to me. We spent a day driving down Highway 1 and he took me to Hearst Castle, and I spent the rest of that summer obsessed with William Randolph Hearst.” He laughs. “Alcatraz, too. For a while, every book I checked out from the library was about the history of Alcatraz.” 

Eric gives Jack an unbearably _fond_ smile. “An eccentric millionaire and an island prison. I wish I could have known you when you were little.”

“There were some rough years not long after that. I’m glad you didn’t know me. Some of my friendships didn’t survive that time.”

Eric reaches across the bench of the back seat and pats Jack’s hand, at once so comforting and arousing that Jack is worried everything he feels for Eric is visible on his face. “You’re too hard on yourself—” Jack will never know how Eric planned to end that thought, because as their car turns the corner he interrupts himself to gasp, “Oh my god, Jack, are we going to The French Laundry?”

Jack tries to feign ignorance, but his smile breaks through. “Good surprise?”

Eric’s still looking at Jack, a funny little smirk on his face. “Lord help me, what am I gonna do with you?”

 

 

Eric is still awestruck as they check in and are led to their table, as they choose a wine and look at the menus. When their waiter arrives with the first course, he leans in toward Jack and whispers, “Do you think it would be tacky if I take a picture?”

Jack looks around, points out other diners doing the same thing. “I think you’re okay. Live it up.”

Eric doesn’t need to be told twice. He whips out his phone, arranges their plates just so, and snaps a quick picture before putting the phone back in his pocket. “Do you realize,” he says, “that this is the first time we’ve had a meal together outside of a hotel room?”

Jack thinks about that. He’s right. Over the summer and early fall they shared at least a dozen pizzas, all of them, as Eric pointed out, in hotel rooms.

“Well,” he says carefully, meeting Eric’s eye and holding his gaze. “I guess maybe I wanted our first date to be a little more special than pizza and wine on the floor.”

Eric’s cheeks turn a little pink, but he doesn’t look away. “I really liked those dates.”

“You thought of those as dates?”

“Well, I don’t know what you thought they were, but what else was I supposed to think? You always flirting with me, both of us drinking a little too much wine.” Eric raises an eyebrow.

“I was not flirt— ”

“Bringing me little gifts, buying me an _oven_? Do you buy all your friends ovens, Jack?”

“I would.”

“‘ _I would_ ,’ he says.” 

“Once I bought my friend Shitty some really good weed for his birthday.”

Eric snorts. “Shitty aside, my point stands: You aren’t subtle, Mr. Zimmermann.”

“Funny, that’s what my parents say.”

Eric hooks his ankle around Jack’s under the table. “It’s fine. We’re here now. Let’s enjoy dinner because oh my lord, Jack, we’re at The French Laundry. Tell me you’ve never brought Shitty to The French Laundry.”

Jack laughs. “No, bud. Only you.” 

“Lord, Jack, I don’t think I’m gonna make it through this night without kissing you.”

Time stops for Jack. He looks right at Eric and speaks deliberately so there’s no question about how he feels: “I hope you _don’t_ make it through this night without kissing me.”

 

 

Maybe it’s a good thing Eric’s been documenting their evening on Instagram, because whatever Jack remembers about this night, it won’t be the food. It will be the way Eric looks at him from across the table, confident and a little flirtatious. The way he closes his eyes and hums in approval when he takes his first bite of caviar, and his excitement when their waiter brings out an assortment of desserts. Their easy conversation, interrupted only by their waiter to clear their plates and deliver a new course, and the plans they make for the rest of their week in California. 

 

 

Eric makes them pose for one final picture in front of the restaurant before they leave, full and a little tipsy from the wine. It’s almost midnight by the time their car arrives to take them back to their hotel, but Jack is wide awake. The air in the back of the car feels charged, and it’s all he can do to keep his hands to himself until they’re in the privacy of their hotel room. Eric seems to have a similar problem because he keeps his hands clasped in his lap for the entire ride. How, Jack wonders now that he knows Eric feels the same way he does, did they stop themselves from doing this all last summer?

The wait to check in is impossibly long given the hour. By the time they get their key, it’s after midnight. That doesn’t stop Jack from pressing Eric up against the wall as soon as the door to their room closes behind them.

“I’ve ... liked you ... for so long,” Eric gasps out between the kisses Jack’s pressing to the side his neck. Jack steps back at that, keeping his hands on Eric’s shoulders to steady himself.

“You’ve liked _me_ for so long? Bud, I’ve been thinking doing this for _months_.”

“Months, huh?”

“That first time we went running and you were wearing those shorts? It wasn’t the first time I _noticed,_ but it was the first time I felt something. And the rest of that weekend with you was just … one of the best of my life.” Jack knows how sappy, how ridiculously in love he sounds, but he doesn’t really care.

“I thought you were cute a couple weeks into the book tour. That day you skated with those two kids and actually acted like a human and not a robot? I think I asked you to come over that night because I was kind of hoping …” Eric blushes furiously.

“Hoping what, Bittle?”

“Hoping that this might happ —” 

Jack cuts him off with another kiss. “This is happening now,” he says when they finally break apart.

“It is, isn’t it?”

“We can take it slow,” Jack says. “If this is too much.”

“Oh my god, Jack, I thought we _were_ taking it slow all this time! I’m not spending another night in a hotel with you sleeping in separate beds.”

Jack glances at the California king, piled high with pillows and a soft-looking duvet, dominating the room. “Well, it’s a good thing there’s only one bed in this room.”

“Remind me to thank your parents for that when I meet them.”

“Are you going to use that mouth to chirp me,” Jack can’t help but tease, “or are you going to use it to do other things?”

“Yes and yes,” Eric says, pulling him towards the bed. Jack lets him pull him down with him, their fall cushioned by a half dozen pillows. “Seems kind of a shame we aren’t going to get very much sleep in this bed,” he says a little wistfully.

Jack is pretty sure he’s going to combust. If Eric can do this to him just by talking, what else is in store for tonight?

“We’ll come back. I promise. Every year.” Jack doesn’t even care that he’s making plans for years into the future out loud. Whatever they’re starting tonight, Eric looks as ready as Jack feels. 

He definitely _feels_ as ready as Jack feels, and when they finally decide to stop talking Eric shows him exactly what that mouth of his can do.

 

 

True to Eric’s prediction, they don’t get much sleep and have to scramble to get ready and check out to make it to their ten a.m. signing back in San Francisco. They’re seated next to each other for it, and every once in a while Eric reaches under the table to give Jack’s knee a little squeeze. He’s grateful that this time, their room is only twenty floors up.

 

 

They spend the week eating at Zagat-rated restaurants and hidden gems only the locals know about. Eric gets his first In-N-Out burger, and he Instagrams that, too. They hike in Muir Woods and take drives up and down the coast in their rented roadster, stopping to explore tide pools and little beach communities. They hit all of the tourist traps in San Francisco, and Jack even lets Eric talk him into going to a club in the Castro. That turns out to be an excellent decision, because Eric’s dance moves will fuel Jack’s fantasies for months. 

As the end of their vacation nears, they both know they never want to spend another night alone. At first they talk around it.

“We could get a place out here,” Jack says as they walk, hand-in-hand, through Yerba Buena Gardens. “Something near the ocean, with a balcony and a room for writing.”

“Lots of big windows,” Eric says, playing along. “A kitchen with a double oven and Sub-Zero.”

Jack chuckles at that. “You would.”

“A big fireplace in the bedroom and a walk-in shower in the bathroom.” Eric raises an eyebrow.

“We could, you know. We can call a realtor.”

Eric sighs. “As much as I love it here, we have to get back to our lives back home. I’m not sure I’m ready to leave the East Coast just yet.”

“Yeah,” Jack agrees “And I don’t think I’d want to be so far from my parents.”

It’s nice to think about, anyway.

 

 

They have a more serious discussion in bed the night before their flight home, after the lights have been turned out and Jack’s curled around Eric the way he wants to be every night for the rest of his life.

“This is it for me,” Jack says. “I know this is fast, but I love you. I don’t want to wait to be together—”

“Come stay with me for a little while,” Eric says. “Or I’ll stay with you. Let’s see if this works when we get back to our real lives.”

“Do you ... think this isn’t going to work?” Up until now, despite his parents’ concern that he’s been moving too fast, they’ve been on the same page. What if Eric’s having second thoughts now that they’ve spent a week together?

“Oh, honey. I am so, _so_ in love with you. Of course I think it’s gonna work. I just think we really need some time to be a normal couple before we make all the big decisions about where we'll live, and whose furniture to keep. You haven’t seen me after a long day. On Wednesdays I have lessons before and after work, and when I get home I fall asleep on the couch as soon as I get home. When I’m really procrastinating a deadline, I stress bake until midnight.”

“I know,” Jack laughs into Eric’s hair. “I got your care packages.”

“Sometimes I leave my dishes in the sink all night. And my mama calls me every Sunday afternoon so she can give me all the church gossip from back home. You think you can deal with that?”

“I can get grumpy,” Jack says, and feels more than hears Eric’s laughter. “I push myself too hard when I run and then I complain about my knee for days. My parents are going to love you, but they’ve never met a boundary they haven’t crossed, so you should probably get used to my dad texting you at strange hours for advice on things like tile grout colors.”

“Mmm, I can’t wait,” Eric says sleepily.

“I mean it. Once he sent me a picture of a cabin in Colorado at two in the morning and asked me if he should buy it.”

Eric shifts a little in Jack’s arms and flips onto his other side to face him. “Why was your dad looking at real estate at two in the morning?”

“I don’t know! Now do you see what I have to deal with?”

“Well,” Eric sighs. “Now you’ve got me to help you talk him out of it. Lord, are all you Zimmermanns so _extra_?” He drops a kiss on Jack’s chest and snuggles closer, tucking his head under Jack’s chin. 

“Yes. You’ll get used to it.”

Eric giggles a little at that, a sweet sound that makes Jack feel all sorts of things, so he shifts a little and kisses the spot on his neck that he’s learned drives him crazy. “We aren’t sleepin’ tonight, are we?” Eric asks.

“We can sleep on the flight tomorrow,” Jack murmurs into his neck.

“Lord, what am I gonna do with you?”

“ _Everything_.”

It’s kind of hard to kiss when you’re both smiling, but somehow they manage and when they finally come apart, Eric sighs contentedly. “Is this our happy ending, Mr. Zimmermann?”

Jack pulls him in closer. “Nah,” he whispers in his ear. “Our happy ending is still being written.”

***

TWO YEARS LATER

 

From Eric Bittle’s Instagram:

 

Photo: Jack Zimmermann, asleep on the couch with an infant on his chest and a copy of _The Very Hungry Caterpillar_ next to him. Caption: “Boys and books. ❤️ #BittleZimmermannBaby”

 

Photo: Copies of Jack Zimmermann and Eric Bittles’ most recent books, alongside a baby book with a bunny on the cover. Caption: “Hey, y’all. For the first time in three years, Jack and I are taking the summer off from our #BittleZimmermannBookTour. We have a few appearances lined up this fall in some major cities, but are cutting back on our tour schedule to spend time with our new son. You can keep up with us on our website and social media accounts for extras, recipes, and a glimpse into what we’re both working on. Jack and I appreciate all of your well wishes, and hope to see you at a rink or bookstore soon!”

**Author's Note:**

> The recipe I imagine Eric using for his pie crust is Martha Stewart's pate brisee recipe, which we use to make apple pie every Thanksgiving. Find it here: https://www.marthastewart.com/317858/pate-brisee-pie-dough


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